


scar tissue that i wish you saw

by orphan_account



Series: breathe me [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cutting, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Pressure, Self Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pressure hits everyone hard... Niall just keeps it under control himself. Zayn helps him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scar tissue that i wish you saw

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is afivewaybromance, i'm totally cool with prompts
> 
> titles comes from "scar tissue" by the red hot chili peppers
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own anything i just like to play with cute boys. 
> 
> enjoy!

There’s a lot of pressure involved in being an international star in a boy band at a young age. The boys of One Direction were affected by it, as had every other young star in history. There was something different of these boys, however. While they did drink, and smoke pot (on a very rare occasion), they were determined not to turn into a trashy star. They didn’t want to be on the front page of the tabloids for negative reasons, thank you very much, so they watched what they did, and they handled the pressure, because that was part of the job. Sure, occasionally Liam had a panic attack from the stress, and, yes, Zayn would sometimes be in hysterics over some of the tweets he’d received, and, alright, fine, the two boys featured in ‘Larry Stylinson’ would occasionally cry to each other over all the pressure. They were fine, if anyone asked, they really were, handling it all quite well, thanks.

One of the things that got to the boys was how carefree a certain Irishman could be. He comforted everyone else, and he joked and laughed to make them feel better. It was odd, really, that he never needed comforting. He was always alright with everything. Another tweet telling him he was worthless? Ignored. Another mess up in a concert? Forgotten. Another interviewer annoying the hell out of him? Oh well. Niall just didn’t care, they all thought.

Surprise, surprise. Niall did care. In his eyes, he was the most worthless of all the boys. He was the worst singer, worst looking, worstworstworst. No one could ever love him. He had no fans. Niall Horan was nothing. But, like the other boys, he had a way of dealing with it.

The silver of the razor glinted in the fluorescent lighting of the hotel. He turned it over in his fingers, before pressing it to his already wrecked wrists. He dragged it over his skin, a thin slice. Blood ran out of his skin, a soft hiss escaping his lips. Another tweet telling him he was worthless? A quick slit on his wrist. Another mess up in a concert? A new cut on his hip. Another interviewer annoying the hell out of him? Another sharp dig in his thigh.

He rinsed the new, burning lines on his wrists. He looked in the mirror. When did this become me? He wondered, softly. His wrist burned and protested as he slipped on bracelets to cover the cuts. Of course, just his luck, he was sharing a room with Zayn this time. Please be asleep.

“Hey, Nialler,” the Bradford boy smiled, looking at the blonde.

“Hey, Zayn.”

“We’ve interviews soon. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, sure am,” Niall said, fake happiness seeping out in his voice. He slid on his shoes. “Let’s go, mate.”

The interviewer wasn’t bad. He was a fun man, he made jokes, but he wasn’t really special. He asked all the basics, about girls, touring, and fans. Then he came to a question that made everyone extremely uncomfortable.

“Do you ever feel any… pressure, in your line of work?” He asked, not quite knowing what he was asking. Niall froze, his hand immediately reaching for his wrist. Liam coughed awkwardly, his hand reaching to the back of his head.

“I’ll be honest with you, mate,” Daddy Directioner began, “I sometimes get reduced to a nervous puddle on the floor. I get terrible panic attacks, especially watching after these prats.” The interview laughed and nodded.

“And we like to have our, er, crying sessions. You know, huddled together until we feel better,” Louis said, lightly, wrapping an arm around Harry.

“Alright, I see. Bit of a bromance crying session, understood…” The interviewer nodded.

“I just kind of… lose my cool. Go all hysterical, and rant for a few minutes, until someone, usually Ni, calms me down,” Zayn admitted.

“And… Niall?” The interviewer prompted. Niall’s hand squeezed his wrist painfully as a fake smile over took his face.

“I’m mostly good with the pressure. I’m content to help out the others, help them relax,” Niall lied smoothly, his teeth showing. He noticed Zayn staring at him, and as they locked eyes, Zayn’s gaze flickered the Niall’s tight grip on his wrist.

Niall was back in the fluorescent bathroom again, the same razor with him, the same thing every day, the same addiction, the same sadness, the same overwhelming urge to open his own skin.

Then suddenly, as the blood was washing down his pale, pale arm, suddenly, the door opened, and there stood Zayn. The darker boy looked none too surprised. He looked disappointed, but like he expected it. Zayn walked through the door, falling to his knees in front of the small Mullingar boy, who was still sitting on the floor. He took the pale, bloody wrist in his hands gently, and all Niall could do was swallow and look away, tears running down his face.

“Oh, love,” Zayn said, so quietly it made Niall swallow even harder.

“Don’t be mad,” the blonde’s voice cracked, “I’m sorry.”

“No, darling, no, don’t be sorry. I’m not mad, I could never be mad.” Zayn took a washcloth, wetting it. He sat in front of the smaller boy, using the washcloth to gently wipe away the blood as Niall hissed softly. “Why?”

“I can’t… I can’t show anyone when I’m stressed. This takes it out,” Niall gestured to the slits of his wrist. “You wouldn’t understand it.”

Zayn’s hand paused as he was cleaning the wrist. A small, humorless smile took over his face. “Wouldn’t I, though?” He threw the washcloth to sink, shoving the sleeves of his jumper up. He revealed dozens of white scars, long healed. The scars started at his wrists and continued all the way up to the crook between his forearms and upper arms. Niall’s eyes widened, as he gently ran fingers over the scars on the left wrist. “I know exactly how you feel. Please, stop doing this to yourself. I’m begging. I can’t take it.”

“No one cares, Zayn. Stop pretending. No one cares about me. I’m nothing,” Niall was crying again, looking away.

“Goddammit, Niall! I fucking care! Can’t you see that?” Zayn was crying too now, Niall could see, and he couldn’t believe it.

“Oh, shit, Zayn… please don’t…” Niall bit his lip, and Zayn launched himself at the smaller boy, wrapping his arms around Niall’s small frame. The Irish boy relaxed in the dark boy’s grip, burying his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck.

“I love you, so much, Niall,” Zayn whispered, so low that Niall barely caught it.

“I love you, too,” Niall replied. He doesn’t mean it the way you want him to, Niall. Don’t get your hopes up.

“No, Niall, you don’t get it,” Zayn groaned, “I love you, not like a friend, please understand.”

Niall froze against Zayn’s neck, letting that sink in. As he thawed, he smiled a genuine smile for the first time in too long.

“Don’t play with me, Zayn,” he muttered, not quite willing to believe it yet. “Don’t break me, please.”

“Niall, I couldn’t play with you. You’re broken, I know you are. Let me help you,” Zayn begged. “I love you.”

Niall kissed Zayn’s neck softly, earning a shudder out of the Bradford bad boy. He kissed his way up the slender neck, along the boy’s jaw and to his lips. Zayn responded in earnest, pressing all of his emotion into the kiss. Both of the boys were still crying, but it was no longer a sad cry. They were tears of joy and relief, tears of finally finding the lips of the one they were in love with.

Zayn picked Niall up off the bathroom floor, never disconnecting their lips. He walked them back into their hotel room, laying Niall down on his bed. Zayn pulled away from the Irishman, Niall’s needy whimpers filling the air.

“You’re perfect, Niall… You’re beautiful, and your voice is fucking incredible, and your laugh lights up everyone’s day. Please stop hurting yourself.”

“I love you,” Niall blurted out, pulling Zayn back to him, lips crashing together.

A sudden thought filled Niall’s mind: Maybe this was what he needed all along. Someone to watch over him. Someone to take care of him. Someone who loved him.

Of course, Zayn’s tongue against his own wiped all thoughts from his mind.


End file.
